Ypres sat softly under the warm glow of the summer sun.
This city had once been the site of the world's bloodiest battles.
The Great War had left scars burned deep into the soil, scars that time had only half-buried.
But the people endured. The soldiers who had survived endured.
They lived. They remembered.
And for more than twenty years, life had returned to normal.
Today was no different.
Children ran through the narrow streets, their laughter echoing off old stone walls.
Mothers watched from doorsteps, gossiping idly, cups of coffee in hand.
Men trudged to their work, bent backs carrying the weight of survival, keeping the city alive.
This was life on the border of Belgium and France.
Calm. Familiar. Fragile.
Then, in the distance, came the thunder.
Engines. Dozens, then hundreds, the sound of armored columns rolling in unison.
Overhead, the drone of propellers cut through the morning air.
At first, the townsfolk froze, uncertain.
